From Ramat Gan, Israel to Readers Back Home

by Ruth Littmann Ashkenazi  

  Many things in life seem to come from out of the blue, like missiles pummeling Israel. I ask Israelis what they make of the current situation and they shake their heads mournfully. "We're used to it. We're accustomed to worse," they tell me. Nevertheless, it's hard to square bombs with the scene of children splashing, laughing, and running around the water park where I am sitting right now.
  The park, located about eight miles north of Tel Aviv and 60 miles south of Haifa, reverberates with music, the gushing of fountains, and happy shrieks of day campers, dripping wet and excited. One barely stops to wonder if, above the cacophony of summer fun, the wail of an emergency siren could even be heard.
  There's no bomb shelter here. Even if there were, it certainly wouldn't be large enough to accommodate 1,000 youth. So tell me: How responsible is a mother like me, who brings her young kids to a place like this, at a time like this, on a day when something evil could literally fall from the clear and benevolent, utterly perfect blue sky?
  Then again, how much safer would we be in my father in-law's eleventh story apartment, in a car or in a grocery store, for that matter? This isn't a nation of shelter-dwellers, notwithstanding the fact that one-sixth of its population has fled the North or sought refuge in reinforced rooms, some underground. This is a nation of people who've learned to live normal lives in spite of life-threatening risks.
  I was dumbstruck yet awe-inspired by a little boy, who appeared on the Israeli network news when the bombing began. "I'm not proud of it, but I'll admit I'm afraid," he said from his home near the Israel/Lebanon border. The boy certainly didn't appear frightened. He spoke slowly and calmly to the camera. Only when the camera focused on his hands did I understand the depth of his anxiety. Clenched and white at the knuckles, his fingers were kneading an invisible ball of nerves, belying his young poker face.
  As for my own 7-year-old and 5-year-old boys here in metropolitan Tel Aviv, they're aware but seem unafraid. From time to time, I get a matter-of-fact inquiry.
  "Mommy, what happens if a missile hits our building?" my younger one has asked.
  "Not likely to happen," I say with a grin. "Don't worry about it."
  But in private, I tell my unflappable Israeli husband that investigating all options is the only responsible track to take. I call the airlines, all of them. Flights are tightly booked or cost $3,780 dollars a seat. I'm not that nervous. Not yet, at least.
  Yesterday, 7/20/06: We arrive to my brother in-law's wedding.  It is being held just outside of the city of Rehovot in an oasis of palm trees, green grass and brightly colored bougainvilleas. Illumined by candles flickering behind white mesh, the venue offers the ultimate in tropical romance and tranquility, but the supersonic fighter jets in the evening skies remind us that all is far from tranquil. An armed guard with a hand-held metal detector checks purses, bags, and people for weapons. Israeli law requires guards to be stationed at coffee shops, restaurants, pubs, wedding halls -- yet another sad reminder that terror often strikes at the happiest of times.
  At the wedding, it's clear from people's demeanors who has made the precarious journey from Haifa and further North. Those who have sat in shelters for more than a week appear pale and wide-eyed among the laughing and dancing Tel Avivians. I greet Rachel, a family member from a northern kibbutz. Just two weeks ago, she entertained my family to a veritable feast in her garden. Usually bubbly and upbeat, Rachel arrives at the wedding in despair. Hezbollah rockets are pounding her area non-stop. Her family can't eat. They can't sleep. Every missile attack feels closer.
  "You can't really understand unless you're there," she tells me.
  I spot more family members, hailing from a different kibbutz in the North. Two weeks ago, we celebrated their 13-year-old daughter's Bat Mitzvah with sumptuous food and a party. That seems like a million years ago. At the wedding, the 13-year-old and her sisters are subdued. Her younger sister, Ziv, gazes at the dance floor, where still younger children run after colorful lights beamed down to the floor from the ceiling.
  "Looks like fun," I comment.
  She nods her head in agreement, clearly longing to let loose for a while.
  Her father speaks of venturing outside of the shelter at noon each day to water his lawn, and each day he plans his escape. If a missile should be coming toward him, where would he go? Needless to say, there's no need to ask. If a missile were coming toward him, it would be too late.
  It's already too late for a lot of things and for many people who've lost their lives or loved ones. Rachel, from the North, has asked me to tell people back home what she and those around her are going through. It's no exaggeration to say that at any moment it might be too late for them to tell the story themselves. I promise Rachel to e-mail friends, family, and newspapers, too. When I turn back to the dance floor, I see little Ziv running after the brilliant blue lights beaming down from above. Many things in life seem to come from out of the blue. How I wish that peace were one of them.

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